One of the Boys
by rockyyy
Summary: She was, after all, one of the boys--so that made it okay, right?


Beforehand--This fic was a gift I made for one of the ladies in our LJ comm, and it turned out really nicely. She loved it--maybe you will too!

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**Title:** One of the Boys

**Disclaimer**: Hey Arnold! = not mine.

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On the inside, Helga G. Pataki was a guy. She didn't want to be, but she was. Nearly everything about her proved it. She played video games til one in the morning, spit on sidewalks, hated shopping, and smelled more like a baseball team than a bouquet of roses. She didn't care about breaking nails or what she'd be wearing to school the next day; she was more concerned about whether or not the Cowboys won Monday night's game, or which wrestler was champion of whatever tournament. She hardly wore makeup and didn't own more than two or three pairs of shoes. Black was probably her favorite color, and she could spot a car on the highway and tell you how much horsepower it had or what year it was made. If it weren't for her C cup breasts and shoulder-length blonde hair, one probably wouldn't know she was a girl at all. She hated admitting it, but Helga was definitely one of the boys.

…So did that make it okay for me to think about her? About what it would be like to kiss her? Her lips were the pinkest, prettiest I'd ever seen on a person. I would watch carefully whenever she applied chapstick, wondering how they would feel on my neck, on my chest, on my own lips. I didn't know of any guy who'd ever kissed her, so I couldn't be nosey. The only boy that had ever gone near Helga's mouth was Arnold, and the last time that happened, we were in fourth grade. He couldn't have remembered anything about the way she tasted. If it were me, though, I never would have forgotten.

I never did.

I still don't know what came over me that night, what possessed me to do it. I shouldn't have let her borrow my pajamas--the tiny shorts with the tank top. That thing barely covered her chest; the top of her black lace bra was in plain sight. Her perfectly smooth, long legs were crisscrossed on my canopy bed, just begging to be touched. I was imagining running my hands up and down the length of them when Helga asked me to turn the light off.

"What for?" I asked, shaking my head as if I could shake the dirty thoughts.

She scowled and rolled her eyes and started complaining about the headache she'd apparently had all evening. I supposed all the trippy, flashing colors from that hippie movie were to blame. I smiled and shut off the light, but left the lamp. It was dim, romantic-looking, but she, of course, wasn't thinking that. I crawled onto my bed, next to her.

She started yapping about Arnold, a topic I really despised hearing for reasons unknown to the general public. I was insanely jealous of him on about ten different levels, but I was good about keeping it a secret. Usually Helga knew about every little thing that pissed me off, but she could never know about this.

As I listened to her bitch about the lack of attention from him, I wondered why she never just came out and told him she liked him. It wasn't like _my_ situation, where my feelings _had_ to be completely concealed. I couldn't afford to drop a single hint; if anyone else knew about how I felt about Helga, who was another _girl_--well, my social life would no longer exist. The reputation I worked for would be destroyed beyond repair. There would have been hope for Helga if she was man enough to just come out with it; nothing too terrible would happen if she just _told_ Arnold she liked him. There was even a big chance he might like her back, and nobody would butcher her for it. But _me_, the richest and most famous teenager in the city--gaga over some tomboy? I'd be burned alive. It was okay to be gay--as long as your name was Rhonda Wellington Lloyd.

Which is why I don't understand why I did it. I mean, I do, deep down--I really liked Helga, but I didn't have to show it. I didn't have to tell her to shut up about Arnold and open her eyes to what was right in front of her. I didn't have to tell her I liked her, that would I treat her right, that I was worth chasing, too. I didn't have to kiss her.

Then again, she didn't have to kiss me back, either. I was so surprised when I felt her lips moving against mine that I nearly pulled away. Maybe it was out of desperation, or the desire to experiment, or whatever, but she _did_ kiss back. It was so slow and so passionate that I actually believed for a few moments that she actually liked me, too, but I knew better.

I knew better, as I scratched at her neck and ran my hands over her chest, that there was no way she returned the feelings. I knew she couldn't possibly think of me as anything more than a friend as I pushed her down and straddled her on my bed, caressing her neck and collarbone. I sunk my nails into her thighs and kissed every inch of skin I could see, doing everything to her that I wished she would do to me.

For a while she just laid there and took it, confounded as I took control of her body, but she surprised me again as she gently pushed me off--not to reject, but to conduct. There was an uncharacteristic gleam in her eyes as she gripped my waist and pinned me to my bed, climbing on top of me and looking up and down my body as if it were a new dress she couldn't wait to try on. She nervously ran her hands over my face and my neck, setting my insides on fire with her touch. I could've sworn she could feel my heart jumping as she rubbed her hands on my chest. Her breaths came in short, quick gasps as I grabbed the front of her shirt--my shirt, actually--and planted another kiss on her lips. Having eased into it, I released my hands and worked them up and down her back, digging my nails in and dragging them downward. The moan that escaped her mouth put me over the edge.

I guided her hand towards my waist, feeling her fingers trembling against my skin. She was gracing the top of my panties.

"Rhonda…"

My glazed eyes met hers; they were wide and full of anxiety. I could tell she couldn't bare to go farther. She'd reached her limit.

I propped up on my elbows with her still straddling me, looking as confused and guilty as ever. I held her face in one of my hands and smiled weakly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just can't…"

"It's okay," I told her, feeling that I should really have been the one apologizing, but there really was nothing _I _could apologize for. She could've said no. She could've pushed me away. She could've told me I was crazy. But no, she did none of that--she only welcomed my embrace, watching how far she could push herself before she reached the breaking point. She was the one who should have been sorry.

I didn't care, though. It hurt, knowing I couldn't have her, but I didn't care at all. Everything we did--it was enough. I kept telling myself that as we laid together in my bed. Before we fell asleep, we kissed again, for what was the last time. I couldn't have Helga, even if she _was_ one of the boys.


End file.
